


In which everyone has a nice day (for once)

by mercuryhatter



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, I am fairly certain that this is crack, I have No Excuse, M/M, Multi, in which everyone has a nice day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:37:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/pseuds/mercuryhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire are everyone's favorite soap opera, Jehan won't write a love poem for Combeferre and so Courfeyrac takes matters into his own hands, Muschietta attempts to keep Bossuet's bad luck from ruining their coffeeshop, Eponine's long-distance boyfriend Marius can't seem to stop doing things like spilling coffee on his electronics and stepping in puddles wearing his new shoes, Courfeyrac attempts to choose his favorite butt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which everyone has a nice day (for once)

**Author's Note:**

> My friends made me do it. Because what this fandom sorely needs is a college AU in which everyone is happy, goddammit. See my tumblr, permets---tu, for rampant headcanons about this ridiculous 'verse. Also, I'm fairly certain that the lovely and hilarious blog textsfromcourfeyrac is 99% responsible for my characterization of Courf.

Half of Muschietta’s coffeeshop was watching the scene Enjolras and Grantaire were making at their table, practically on top of each other and making out in a way that was really much more suited to a bedroom or possibly a pornographic parody of a Nicholas Sparks film.

“I suppose our favorite dysfunctional couple is back together again,” Bahorel said with a smirk. Jehan dropped his head to the table and let out a muffled groan.

“They’re disgusting and I hate them,” he proclaimed. Courfeyrac burst into laughter from his place on Bahorel’s lap. He was engaged in something of a war with Joly: Courfeyrac kept trying to put his feet on Joly’s lap only to have them repeatedly shoved off with a squawked admonition about germs.

“Such harsh words from our gentle poet,” Courfeyrac said, pouting. Jehan lifted his head long enough to give him his best River Tam, I-can-kill-you-with-my-brain glare. It was especially effective ever since Jehan had made the surprising switch to astrophysics after a year or two of dabbling in creative writing and Renaissance studies: ever since he’d declared his major Courfeyrac seemed convinced that Jehan was plotting to both blow up the Sun and take over the universe, despite multiple attempts to explain to him that these two goals were actually quite at cross-purposes. Jehan had eventually given up on the explanations and simply used it to intimidate Courfeyrac every so often.

“Leave him alone, you know he’s just mooning after Combeferre again. Do you know he refuses to write the poor guy a love poem?” 

“Really? Why?” Courfeyrac asked, finally giving up on his quest to put his feet on Joly and relegating them to the table instead. “Your love poems would even make me want to run away with you!”

“Courfeyrac, you’re in love with everyone, so that is not exactly high praise,” Jehan sighed, watching moodily as Eponine finally stepped in at Grantaire and Enjolras’ table, whacking them both over the head and shoulders with her dish towel. Her younger brother Gavroche was sitting nearby, on his fifth or sixth repetition of “Grantaire and Enjolras, sitting in a tree,” and as Jehan watched Grantaire finally flung his half-eaten scone at Gavroche in an attempt to shut him up. Gavroche simply caught the scone and stuffed it into his mouth, sticking his crumb-covered tongue out at Grantaire and making kissy noises.

“I’m serious! Dammit, Enjolras, I would have at least expected a little more class from you-- oh, fuck it,” Eponine muttered finally, tossing her towel on the table. she reached over to a mixed reaction of cheers and boos, took Grantaire’s ear in one hand and Enjolras’ ear in the other, and dragged them both bodily out of the cafe.

Courfeyrac fell off Bahorel’s lap laughing, cupping his hands to shout “you tell those dirty bastards, ‘Ponine!”  
“Watch out or you’ll be next” she shot back, glowering at him menacingly before starting to bus the table that had until recently been occupied by Enjolras and Grantaire.

The two of them slunk back in separately after a few minutes, taking seats at Jehan’s table and actually managing to sit more than six inches away from each other.

“You know,” Bahorel remarked conversationally, as if he wasn’t casually knocking Courfeyrac back down every time he tried to clamber back into Bahorel’s lap, “if you two would stop fighting for weeks at a time you wouldn’t feel the need to make such a scene every time you get back together. We all know you’ll never break up for real anyway.”

“Not that I mind the scenes,” Courfeyrac called from the floor, where he had given up on trying to claim a seat at all, “but it’s a shock that either of you two still have ears attached to your heads.”

“None of your business,” Grantaire responded cheerfully, producing a flask from his pocket and adding the contents liberally to his coffee. Enjolras frowned at him, but didn’t say anything, probably to avoid starting another fight.

“Jehan won’t write a love poem for Combeferre,” Joly brought up absently, seeing from the corner of his eye that the situation might need defusing. Jehan blushed bright red as Enjolras redirected his frown to him.

“Why not? We can’t all have been wrong about the two of you.” Jehan blushed harder.

“No, that’s not it, it’s just that Combeferre’s very practical, and I don’t think a love poem would be something he’d like!”

“Write him a science-y poem,” Grantaire suggested. “You know, like that one where all the different sciences are telling you to go the fuck to sleep.”

“Maybe,” Jehan sighed, slumping in his chair. “He’s not even here tonight, anyway.”

“Jehan just likes to moon. It’s picturesque,” Bahorel put in as Courfeyrac poked his head up above the table.

“Combeferre’s not here?” he asked, looking around to check before ducking back beneath the table again. Before anyone has time to notice (except maybe Grantaire, who was already in fits of laughter), Courfeyrac was across the room, holding Jehan’s phone triumphantly in his hands.

“No, no, no, Courfeyrac, give that back right now,” Jehan threatened, rising from his chair, but Courfeyrac was already typing, reading aloud as his fingers moved.

“Dear Combeferre, the glare of your Harry Potter glasses-- and a slash, here, since it’s poetry-- really makes me want to touch your... asses. I guess he has more than one now.”

“You could say ‘assets,’” Bahorel suggested helpfully. Grantaire was trying hard to hide his hysterics, head in his arms on the table, while Joly and Enjolras both looked conflicted. Jehan, however, was putting what he had learned from the one time Bossuet had convinced him into playing football, and launched himself at Courfeyrac’s knees in what was really quite a nice tackle.

Eponine was yelling indignantly over the racket, prompting Courfeyrac to attempt an apology that was hard to take seriously given that he kept laughing before he could finish. In the interval, Jehan got his phone back, stretched out on his stomach across the floor, but at the small flashing “message sent” notification he let his forehead drop to the floor, sighed deeply, and hoped that Eponine would kill Courfeyrac so that Jehan wouldn't have to do it himself.


End file.
